


I Almost Lost You

by Amydiddle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Blood, Depictions of wounds, Fidds getting hurt and Ford panicking, It was the KillBilly that done did this, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 15:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10699893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amydiddle/pseuds/Amydiddle
Summary: He watched as the shadowy figure ran back into the woods. As much as he wanted to take out his journal and record the new information there was still a task at hand. The beast maybe gone but it left bloody destruction in its wake.





	I Almost Lost You

**Author's Note:**

> http://amydiddle.tumblr.com/post/159850083583/11-or-3-with-fidds-and-ford-maybe

Stanford panted as he watched the shadowy figure of the beast run back into the woods. His hand twitched to grab his journal to record the new information he had now gathered on this creature. He had underestimated its abilities and skills when he had first observed it. The thing that prevented him from jotting down his findings was the hiss of pain that came from behind him.

“Fiddleford!” Ford gasped and turned to rush towards his partner. How easily he had forgotten the attack that had just happened.

Fiddleford had sat himself up on nearby tree. His skin had started to turn a sickly pale color and his hand was clutched onto his shoulder; too close to his neck for comfort. The obvious pain he was in did not stop the stubborn southerner from an attempt to pull himself back to his feet with the tree as leverage.

Ford jumped into action when Fiddleford almost slipped and fell back to the ground. Ford's hands caught the unsteady figure and gently brought him the rest of the way to the ground.

“Hey! Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself,” Stanford said softly but firmly. He did not need his friend to get even more injured doing such stunts.

“Shut up,” Fidds mumbled through gritted teeth. 

Stanford frowned at the response. Usually Fiddleford would give him a smart aleck response in a way of communicating that he was fine. Once they were done with the playful banter, they would held each other up and stumble back home to deal with the wounds they had acquired. If Fiddleford just shut him down that quickly something must be seriously wrong.

Fiddleford seemed to take no notice to Stanford's worried expression. He hissed in pain as he moved his hand from his shoulder to look at the injury it had hidden barely covered.

With the hand gone all Ford saw was the terrifying dark red of blood. The southerner’s hand was covered in the color and his shoulder was torn. It was almost impossible to tell where the torn cloth of Fidds' shirt stopped and the shredded skin began. Red oozed from the exposed wound and made Fiddleford go even paler at the sight.

“Oh God, you’re bleeding,” Ford whispered as he stared at the wound in horror.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Fiddleford breathed and leaned against the tree with a whine. Somehow the sight of the wound only made it hurt more.

Stanford grimaced; he was just saying all the wrong things today.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Without hesitation, he ripped some cloth from his coat and pressed it to the wound. Ford did his best not to flinch when his friend gave a small cry of pain from the sudden pressure. “I’m sorry but we need to keep pressure on it. I can’t have you bleeding out on me, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford nodded his head but stayed silent. His vision had almost gone black when Ford had pressed the swatch to his shoulder. His full focus was on staying conscious and breathing. One breath in, one breath out; ignore the pain. He felt sweat run down his forehead but the world felt almost cold. The thought of death circled into his mind but he weirdly felt fine with it. He would have thought that death would have scared him as much as everything in life had but he felt calm. He felt so calm. Like he could just close his eyes and take a short rest while he waited for Stanford for to be done with this. 

Stanford looked up from the wound just in time to see Fiddleford's eyes start to close. In an instant he moved his free hand and started tapping the pale cheeks of his partner.

“Hey, Hey,” Ford’s voice was desperate as he hit the side of Fidds' face until dull, blue eyes opened once more, “Look at me, Fiddleford. Do not close your eyes. Just focus on me and keep breathing.”

"I'm up. M'up," Fiddleford mumbled and tried to swat the hand away. Dumb Stanford, trying to ruin his nap. 

Stanford started to move in double time. This little incident would not be the first; they had to move now. He let the now soaked piece of cloth fall to the ground and clumsily ripped a longer strip of cloth from his coat. Once it was free from the rest of the ruined article of clothing he tied around the wound so it would give it constant pressure. He tapped on Fiddleford's face again when he saw the man start to drift and tried to keep eye contact with him. 

“Stay with me, Fidds. I am going to have to pick you up,” Ford explained, “You okay with that?" 

“Okay,” Fidds whispered. He was too argue with the method that had to be used to save his life. His eyes slowly moved to watch Ford shift positions so he could be lifted up. Vaguely he knew he should have braced for the small pain that came from his shoulder when he was lifted but it was too late when the idea came to him. Fidds let out a small sound of pain and closed his eyes tightly to chase away the dark spots that swam in his vision. 

Stanford did not make a sound when he picked up his partner. Fiddleford was usually so light but now he seemed like brick of dead weight in Stanford’s arms. He shifted the lanky figure in his hold a few times to make sure he would not dro and injure him further. Once certain that Fidds was secure, Ford started the retreat from this spot in the woods in the direction they had come from. 

Fiddleford’s head was rested on Stanford’s shoulder and one arm hung down like a rad doll toy. Blue eyes stared dully up at the sky without much indication that the man that owned them saw any of the leaves above them. He was aware that he was bleeding out but he could not muster up the energy to care. The sight of the mid-day sun rays that streamed through the gentle leaves of the forest canopy would not be the worst thing to die seeing. He let his eyelids slowly start to drop down.

“Talk to me, Fiddleford,” Ford said quickly and pulled the man from the attempted nap, “What...how was your last phone call with Tate?”

Fidds blinked his eyes slowly as he tried to stay awake and seemed to contemplate what Ford just said.

“Tate?” He said the name slowly, as if trying to remember its significance. 

“Yes, Tate. Your son," Ford quickened his pace, "How is he? Anything interesting last time you two talked?”

Stanford did his best to keep the panic from his voice. Fiddleford’s speech was too soft and slurred; too close to that nonsensical mumble.

“Tate..."Fidds seemed to struggle with this, "Tater said…said he caught a frog las’ week.”

“A frog? What kind of frog? Did he describe it?" 

Stanford turned when he saw the mark on the tree he had made earlier. They were so close to the house but also so far.

“Said,” Fidds paused and seemed to think long on this simple thing, “Said it was small…bright green...kinda...kinda sticky...he said.”

“Sounds like a common tree frog,” Ford remarked as calmly as he could, “Where did he catch it?”

Fiddleford’s eyelids had started to droop. He was only vaguely aware of the question that had been asked of him. He tried to answer but the words were just not forming. He was so tired. So cold and tired. 

“Fiddleford,” Stanford said quickly and looked down at the man in his arms. “Fiddleford, wake up. I have to know where he found the frog. I-It's important.”

“…hou…ssss…”

The slurred word was so soft that Ford was barely able to hear it.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

There was no response from the man in his arms. Stanford chanced a glance down cursed quietly to himself at the sight. Fiddleford had passed out and his skin was way too pale. Ford held onto the figure in his arms tighter and increased the speed of his run to get to the house faster. He did not have time to dawdle.

* * *

Fiddleford’s first sense was the dull ache that seemed to run through his body as he slowly swam back to consciousness. The man felt like a truck had just run over him and then backed up over his body a few times for good measure. It took a few tries to get his eyes to open and when he did the world was blurred and wobbly. He was only vaguely aware of the sound of someone saying his name before a darkness took over his vision once more.

When he came to again he was more aware of an ache on his shoulder and a dip of the world under him by his side. He shifted under the sheets before he opened his eyes and blinked at the blurriness to try and get rid of the weird dry feeling. Fiddleford grimaced at the terrible, dry feeling of his mouth and did his best to sit up without disturbing the ache. Without his glasses, it was a little hard to see but he could only guess that this was a hospital room.

His movement seemed to disturb the presence next to him. Fidds did not have time to determine who it was just through vague shapes before he was pulled into a slightly painful hug.

“You’re alive!” Ford’s voice said into his shoulder, “I thought you died. I-I thought I lost you. I thought…”

Fidds tried to lift both arms to hug back but found that it would be impossible. The one connected to the injured shoulder had been put into a sling to make sure the wound healed correctly. The southern man settled for the one-armed hug and patted Ford’s back.

“Can’t lose me that easily,” he said. His voice was still soft but hoarser then it had been in the woods.

Stanford pulled back and cupped Fidds’ face gently in his hands. There were obvious tear stains on the man’s face and the joke that should have been there was unsaid. A thumb gently moved over the southerner’s cheek and he looked over his faintly, freckled face.

Alive. Fidds was alive and staring at him.

“Stanford,” Fidds said with a small smile, “I’m alright.”

Stanford nodded and moved a little closer so their foreheads were pressed together. He let a hand move away from the man’s face to run his fingers through his hair. The terrifying thought that he almost lost this ran through his mind on a loop.

“I know,” Stanford said after a moment. He pressed a kiss to Fidds’ forehead and gave a soft sigh, “I know you are.”

He pressed a kiss between Fiddleford’s eyes, then to both eye lids, the tip of his nose, and lastly, he pressed one to the man’s lips. They were no longer that chilling blue color that meant death. They were warm and full of life. They pressed back to his and he felt the free arm hold him as close as it could with what strength it had.

Fidds was alive. He was still here and still loved him. It was almost painful to move away but Fiddleford needed as much oxygen and rest as possible. Ford pressed a soft, quick kiss once more to his lips before he pulled so their foreheads were against each other’s once more.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Fidds rolled his eyes and gave a short laugh.

“It was your idea to go after the darn thing,” Fidds said and wiped away a tear that threatened to fall from Ford’s eye. The little joke did not seem to life Stanford's spirits like the man would have hoped. 

"I know and I am so sorry. If I had known the damage that it could cause I would not hav-."

"Yes you would've. You live fer danger," Fidds sighed and pressed a kiss to Ford's cheek. 

Stanford grimaced. He knew it was true; he would have ran after that monster if knew it would attack. It as his fault his partner was like this. 

"I should be the one that is hurt," he said softly. The guilt that had started to settle into his heart was short lived when he got a sharp flick to the head. 

"Now don'chu go thinkin' like that," Fidds said sternly, "I would hate it if you were the one like this. I am happy you are okay."

Stanford rubbed the spot on his head and started to protest. "But, I was the one that went after it. It should have been me that got attacked."

"And it wasn' cause I pushed you out of the way," Fidds pointed out, "So stop feelin' guilty." 

"But-," Stanford began but went silent. With a defeated sigh and rested back into the chair that was next to the bed, "Fine." 

Fiddleford grinned in his victory and leaned back more against the pillows. That little argument had taken a lot out of him. He could feel the pull of the medication as he tried to get him back into the inky blackness of unconsciousness. He did not want to sleep but his body was giving him no choice.

"Promise..." Fiddleford stopped for a yawn, "Promise me ya' won' go runnin' off without me again." 

Stanford looked over the tired man in the hospital bed and gave a small smile.

"I'll be right here when you wake up."

Fidds gave a small little frown as his eyes closed.

"Ya' know what I mean," he mumbled.

Stanford waited until he was sure his partner was far enough along in the drug induced doze to give an answer. He gave a small sigh took Fiddleford's hand carefully in his own. His thumb ran over the back of the calloused but slender fingers carefully before he placed a gently kiss on the back of it. 

"I know," he whispered to the unconscious man, "And I promise."


End file.
